


Defying Gravity

by ginger_rude



Series: For Want of a Nail [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-it, Episode Related, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Episode: s03e13 Will You Play With Me?, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Exposition, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied/referenced suicidal ideation (mostly subtext), M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Retcon, Slash, Slow Burn, Subtext, Unresolved Emotional Tension, minor mendings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: What if the events in Castle Blackspire had gone slightly differently?  How much ripple effect does one choice have?The first of what's planned as a five-partseries.Canon up until almost the very end of "Will You Play With Me?"  Then, increasingly, not.   Centered around a developing Q/E relationship and character development, with an AU version of S4's greater crises rumbling in the background.*No, the title has nothing to do with "Wicked."10/6/19: I added a prologue, then decided it still needs work and took it down again, at least for the time being.  Sorry for any confusion.10/28/19  Addedprologueas separate entry in theseriesinstead.  (Didn't love what tacking it on as an earlier chapter here did to the formatting).





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slightly softer ending, a seed planted.

He’d said the words lightly, ignoring the sick hot feeling in his gut until it was too late. Quentin looks like he’s been kicked in the stomach. Eliot stares at his hands. He lets the peach drop and roll away. There's a sour taste at the back of his mouth. 

He watches from the corner of an eye as Quentin pores over the letter, intent as though he can pry fresh meaning from it with each reread. They sit in silence, broken only by the rustle of fingers smoothing paper. Over and over. Over and over.

Finally, Eliot can’t take it anymore.  


“Q.” 

He clears his throat; peach flesh turned to glue.  


“That was harsh. And, possibly unfair. I’m sorry.”  


Quentin lifts a shoulder without looking up. “Forget it. It was stupid.”  


“No. Look. Not stupid.” Where am I going with this, Eliot wonders. “Just…abrupt.”  


“I get it.” Quentin’s soft voice takes on the slightest edge. “You don’t have to—“  


Eliot cuts him off. “What I am trying to say is that I am also a little overwhelmed right now. Let’s take a beat. Sleep this off. And…”  


He seems to watch the words emerge from his own mouth in a balloon.  


“…If you still feel the same in a few days. Or however long it takes until a fifty year emotional hangover clears up. You can ask me again.”  


Now Quentin does look at him. Furrowed brow, baby seal eyes, and, yes, some red at the rims. Oh, god. 

Eliot puts a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Ok?” Quentin nods, still looking bewildered. Eliot stands 

“I’m going to go see if the kitchens can whip up something with protein. Want anything?”  


Quentin shakes his head. Eliot hesitates.  


“See you later, then,” he finishes lamely. He starts off, paused, drops a kiss on Quentin’s head.

He can feel Quentin’s gaze following him out of the room.

Days pass. Eliot busies himself with affairs of state, such as they are. Quentin returns to his affectionate self. No further words are spoken about “giving it a shot.” Few signs of lingering hurt. A little cloud of gentle disappointment when Eliot has to decline to accompany him on the Muntjac. 

And then, they're all back in their respective whirlwinds of we-are-fucked-without-grease, crisis without end hallelujah, no time for processing or even much interaction at all. 

And then, the end of the quest is in sight. They're back in the same room at last, planning resolution together.

And then, Quentin reveals his plans for the future.

“I stay in the castle.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice is a heel-face-revolving-door. One last spin at the right moment changes a lot of trajectory.

It had all been so fast. They’d barely had time to celebrate the newly plashing magical current, and suddenly: A rat-faced man in Librarian grey. A pretty woman wearing a malicious expression. And, of all fucking people, Dean Fogg.

She’d flung a handful of black smoke, freezing them in place. And then what? Cruella had threatened Penny, Rat-face was headed for the font, and then—Alice, yes, coming up from behind the unholy trinity. More black contrails. He’d abruptly pitched forward, released. Shouts, pounding footsteps. Someone grabbing him roughly by the arm. The familiar lurch of being Traveled.

Now, here they are, back in the throne room. Eliot surveys the tableau around him, still massaging his arm; there’ll be a beauty of a bruise there tomorrow. At the center, Kady dumps Alice to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Penny crouches over Julia’s limp body; angry red weals still cover her face and hands. In a corner, Josh’s shocked, pale moon face. Quentin sits on the floor by a pillar, head bent.

Margo, in all her five foot three magnificence, towers over them all. Her face is a study in rage.

Eliot starts toward his throne, remembers it's not his anymore, and stands back as Margo glacially takes her seat. Fine: shotgun, then. He drops into Margo’s former throne with as much dignity as possible. 

“So,” he says. “That happened.”

Behind him, Josh asks plaintively, “What happened, exactly?”

Alice, still sprawled out on the tiles, writhes under Margo’s glare.

“This treacherous cunt tried to fuck us all over,” spits Margo. “Guards.”

They're as swift as usual. Eliot ponders that if everything else in Fillory were this efficient, they’d be ruling over an empire by now. 

Alice tries to crawfish away. “And then I saved you.”

Eliot can't repress a sneer. He's angry, but also it's been far too long since he’s indulged in a good sneer, and this one feels righteous. Poor little magic girl, indeed. 

“Saved us,” Margo echoes, as the guards drag Alice to her feet. 

Alice struggles. “It’s not over. They’ll regroup. McAllister will want revenge. And the Monster—“

“The lowest dungeon,” says Margo. “The one with the most rats.”

“We don’t have rats anymore, Majesty,” says Tick. Eliot jumps; when had he oozed into the room? "Not since the great de-Rattening just prior to the post-Emberian Restoration, thanks to your—“

“Well, import some,” snaps Margo. She flicks a hand. Tick bows and slithers out again. 

As the guards begin their frogmarch, Alice makes one last desperate push. “Quentin.”

Quentin continues to study his hands. Boots echo away. Doors clang shut. Silence.

Eliot takes advantage of the lull to signal a servant. He pantomimes. With a nod at the familiar gesture, the servant goes off in search of a bottle.

“I don’t understand,” says Josh, finally. “Why?”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “She nailed her theses to the door. Magic bad, Alice petty. What’s not to understand?”

“This part,” says Penny. He holds up the siphon, tosses it to the floor. “She held them off just long enough for me to nab it, and you. Too late for their power grab. Whatever else, magic's back on. ”

“So—what?” says Kady. “First she says she’s with us. Then she sticks a knife in our back. Then she sticks a knife in the Library’s back. What the hell is she even thinking?”

“Who gives a shit,” says Margo. 

“She thinks she knows what’s best for everyone,” says Eliot, “so whether she’s saving us from Team CryptoFascist or big bad scary magic, she’s doing the right thing. She’s consistent, in a way. Sketchy on the whole ‘consent’ concept. But, consistent.”

“She’s a duplicitous little shitweasel,” says Margo. 

“And that,” says Eliot.

“She’s not the only one,” Quentin says softly.

“What?” says Margo, as though a chair had spoken.

Eliot stares at Quentin, hard. “She’s not the only one…what?”

Quentin looks straight back at him. “Who decided to play savior, ignored ‘no,’ and didn’t care about the consequences.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that us saving your goddamned life is on par with her fucking the entire multiverse up the pissflap because she can’t 12-step her own magic jones,” says Margo. 

Quentin scoffs. “‘Us.’ Of course you were in on it. And you weren’t ‘saving my life.’ I made a commitment. I explained how important it is that someone stay down there. I explicitly told you not to fucking shoot. Apparently, nothing I say matters.”

Margo’s voice is dangerously soft. “Well. I’m sorry we didn’t understand you were that desperate to go underground into the dark, alone, forever. The next time, we’ll leave you to it. I promise.”

The most extraordinary series of expressions flickers over Quentin’s face. He looks down and away again, quickly, hidden behind the safety curtain of his hair.

The servant (what is this one’s name again? Eliot thinks it might have something to do with insects) appears with his wine. Opportune. Eliot decides to forgo the goblet. He's not in a sharing mood, anyway.

“A little harsh, maybe?” Josh ventures.

“No.” Margo never takes her eyes off of Quentin. “He needs to understand. You want to be fucking ungrateful, fine. I’m used to it. You want to throw your life away for some cockheaded idea of a heroic gesture, join the goddamned macho club. But. After tonight. You still defend your shit-eating ex—“

“I’m not.” Quentin seems to have regained control of himself. “I’m not defending anything she did. But what she said about the Monster? We need to hear the rest of it.”

“Go ask her yourself. Take your time. We’ve got plenty of room down there.”

“Bambi, please.” Eliot's getting a spot headache. The wine will either cure him or blind him, he decides. Probably the latter; it has that unique Fillorian bouquet of mulch, with a strong equine finish. 

“Fine.” Margo finally turns her basilisk gaze back on him. “What do we need to know? You shot it, right?”

“Shot it. Saw the body. Didn’t move again.”

“And Ora?” says Quentin. “She disappeared, remember? Where’d she go, Eliot?”

Eliot shrugs exaggeratedly. I am the emoji personified. “What are you suggesting?”

“That maybe, just maybe, if it all it took to kill it was one magic bullet, someone would have done it a long time ago? Why would the entire frigging pantheon of gods be terrified if the solution were that simple?”

Eliot shrugs again. The wine is finally kicking in, thank fuck. “As we’ve learned, gods aren’t necessarily all that bright.”

Quentin throws up his hands. They're at an impasse here. Julia breaks it, voice hoarser than usual.

“She also wasn’t wrong about Irene McAllister.”

She's sitting up now, half-propped by Penny. Her face has something of its normal color back, though still mottled. 

“Also, can we talk about the Dean for one second?” says Josh. “Because, I have about a million questions, and they all start with ‘fuck.’”

Quentin says, “You know what, I will. I’ll go—I’ll go talk to her. We need information.”

“Torture implements are in the armory, last shelf on the left,” says Margo. 

“Let us know when the lambs stop screaming,” says Eliot. 

He watches Quentin stalk away through half lidded eyes, and signals for a fresh bottle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Alice have a chat.

He’s never been to this level before. 

Down here, there are no more graceful Fillorian architectural details of carved wood or colorful tile. A real dungeon, then, devoid of luxury. Quentin regards the moss-furred cracks in the floor. Below them, he thinks, would be only soil, and crawling things. He wonders how many shovels full of dirt it would take before you broke through to the underside: the darkness, the fires, the shadow castle they’ve just fled. Maybe that kind of digging would be easier.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

He closes his eyes. “Just tell me what you saw.”

“After I—after I started to leave. I nearly ran into her—“

“Ora.”

“Her eyes flashed gold, like his, and she said the same thing, will you—“

“Play with me, right. So, it does body hop.”

“We have to assume.”

“Great. By the way, there’s no ‘we’ here, Alice. So we’re clear.”

Her voice is flat. “Crystal.”

He pauses, collecting himself. The questions he came down to ask are straightforward, he knows, but somehow, voicing them now is like extruding mud.

Plaintive, now: “Can you at least look at me, Q?”

He smiles mirthlessly at the ceiling. 

“Fine,” she says. “I understand.”

“Do you,” he says. “Because at this point, I don’t expect to, ever.”

“Then I guess we’re done here.”

“What was Fogg doing with you?”

“I thought you could never possibly understand.”

“I don’t need to. I just need to know what he told you.”

A sigh. “Honestly, not that much. I know he believes what the Library stands for: to protect the flame of knowledge. Brakebills is everything to him. He had no power. And the Library is powerful. He wanted a safety net, in case—”

“In case we fucked it up, I get it. But we didn’t.” 

“This time.”

He raises his voice, then, finally. He can’t help it. “You mean, it’s still all my fault, because my last fuck-up was why we lost magic in the first place.”

“Not everything is about you, Quentin.”

“Oh, ok. Because I was under the impression that breaking all of goddamned magic was entirely about me. You held me personally responsible. Remember?”

“So, what, is that it? I couldn’t forgive you, you can’t forgive me? Are we even now?”

Now he does look at her, and he's gratified to see her flinch. Her eyes gleam at him wide and white through the gloom; he's gripped with a sudden mad urge to ask her what he has in his pocket. Riddles in the fucking dark, same as it always is. 

“You know what?” he says. “You’re right. Not everything is about me. You lied to my face, but hey, you lied to all of us. So the part where supposedly I’m the only one you love enough to tell everything, it doesn’t matter. No one is ever going to trust you again.” 

“I’m sorry, okay? I did try to talk to you about how I felt, why maybe we shouldn’t bring it back. You didn’t want to hear it.”

“Right. You were worried about my dad. I’m not going to pretend it was an easy choice, Alice, but it was a little easier to sleep with when I still had a goddess for a friend, and by the way, why don’t you ask Julia about forgiveness? Because that one’s not about me, either.” 

“Quentin—“

“Shut up.” He wonders, briefly, if this is how it feels to be a niffin: literally incandescent with rage. It's almost like joy. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort you just waltzed in and shat all over? Some of us spent an entire lifetime on the Quest. Fifty years, Alice. I’m completely fucking serious.” 

They stare at each other.

“You’d said something about some kind of time loop,” she says. “You, and Eliot? I’m…sorry, that sounds like a lot more than you—but, Quentin, we all have alternate timeline counterparts. It’s not really us.”

“It is if you remember it.”

Her mouth drops slightly open. Vindication.

“The task was this giant outdoor puzzle in Fillory. Every day, we put it together. Every night, we took it apart again. For fifty years. We were peasants. We had to do everything by hand, the hard way. I forgot my old life. I had a wife, for a little while. I had a child, and grandchildren. And I had a husband,” he finishes pointedly. Let her do the math. “The punchline? We were never going to solve it. That was the point. It was impossible, and we knew it, but we had to keep trying anyway. Our entire lives on that one little plot of land, making patterns with tiles, day after day, till we died of old age. All to get one key, Alice. One.” 

He can still feel his heart thrumming all through his body. Adrenaline spikes sour through his wrists. His tongue prickles unpleasantly. 

“Actually,” she says at last, “that sounds kind of nice.”

He blinks. 

“It was,” he says slowly. “I think it was.”

“But you’re not sure you really remember it.” 

She doesn’t sound sarcastic, just gently curious. She’d always been insightful. He’d forgotten what it's like to receive that as something other than a weapon.

“Like a dream,” he admits. “Bits and pieces. Sometimes I get this weird kind of double consciousness. It’s like, I don’t know, wearing 3D glasses? Other times, I can hardly remember at all, except maybe when I’m falling asleep. But I know it.“ He taps his chest. “I…“

He sits down. He can’t think what he’d been going to say, any of it. What is he doing here at all? What's the point?

“…I’m old, Alice.”

He hears her draw in a slow breath.

“Is that why you were going to stay down there? Because you’d lived so long, and you felt—” 

“Like I’d grown,” he says sharply. “Like I was prepared. Why is this so fucking hard to understand? It was the Quest. It was bigger than any of us. We all make sacrifices. Remember?”

“Yes. But you never even considered another solution. And before you say it again, Quentin: there is a difference. Eliot got to be king of fairyland. It wasn’t the worst fate. And when I— I had to make a decision in that moment, or else everyone would have died, me included. I didn’t plan it out way in advance. I didn’t want to—” She stops.

“Just say it,” he says colorlessly. “But you think I did. That I’m still just that guy.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?” Her voice shakes. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t ask any of us.” 

“I guess that’s going around,” he says, and hates himself. 

“Fine,” she says. “What I did tonight? At least I know I was being a selfish, cowardly little shit. You look surprised. You think you can’t do the right thing and run away at the same time? Stop kidding yourself, Quentin. You were running away, same as me. But you, you dress it up. Oh, a quest, so romantic. Knights, and, and rescues, and journeys. Even after everything you’ve learned, at some level, you still think it all has to mean something in the end, don’t you? The Quest wants this, the Quest taught us that. Someone or something actually gives a shit about you and your character development and your noble sacrifice. Because you read it in a book.”

His head is too heavy to lift. His eyelids, his hands, all an impossible burden. 

“You know what I want?” she says. “I just want magic to stop bothering me. Because it will never leave me alone as long as it exists, Quentin. Even if I become this totally new person. Who, works in a bookstore, and writes shitty poetry, and corporate copy to pay the rent. I could dye my hair pink. Pierce something. Get really, really drunk every night. I’d have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or both, or neither, or just a crapton of cats. That don’t explode. Because shit like that just wouldn’t happen in my world, Quentin. Ever.”

“That sounds nice,” he says. He's tired. So tired. “Maybe you should go do that.”

She gestures around her. “In case you didn’t notice by now, my plan didn’t exactly work out.”

“Well,” he says. “I’m sorry if you can’t get away from magic; the rest of us need it more, sorry. But eventually you’ll get out of here, and then you can do whatever you want.”

And just like that, clear and small, the thought comes to him: so can I.

“I think Margo has other ideas about that,” she says.

“I’ll talk to Margo.” He has to go, he realized, right fucking now. 

She snorts. “Have you met Margo?”

“I’ll…talk to…someone. Figure it out. I—um, good luck. And—“ He's already stumbling to his feet, up the hall. 

He expects her to call after him, but she doesn’t. He thrusts his guttering torch at a guard; he doesn’t want to carry it anymore. By the time he hits the winding stairs, he 's running, three steps at a time. 

Spiraling toward the light.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets a late night visitor.

By the time the knock finally comes, Eliot's given up on room service for the night. Being a king really had its benefits, he thinks, retying his robe. Doe-eyed boys in uniform who came bearing food, booze, mind-altering gifts from Josh…anything he desired, day and night. He’ll miss it.

He opens the door to reveal a particularly disheveled Quentin. 

“Hi?” says Eliot. 

“I—“ Quentin is slightly out of breath. “I need to talk to you.”

Eliot steps aside, softly closing the door behind them. “What’s up?” 

But whatever Quentin needed to talk about, it's not forthcoming. He simply stands, still breathing raggedly. Eliot regards him more closely. It's hard to tell in the torchlight, but he thinks Quentin’s color looks off as well. He puts a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Quentin’s mouth works. He looks at Eliot with eyes that seem all pupil, then quickly away. 

“Q?”

Abruptly, Quentin flings himself at Eliot and clings to him, as if boneless. Eliot, who's used to Quentin’s puppy lunges, recovers his footing quickly. He maneuvers them both to the edge of the bed and sits down. 

“What—“ he begins, and then stops. He puts his arms around Quentin; this, at least, he knows how to do. Quentin’s face presses into Eliot’s shoulder. When he finally speaks, it's barely audible. 

“I’m not thanking you.”

It takes Eliot a moment before he understands. Something turns over in his chest. “Okay,” he says. 

They stay like that for a time, in silence. Quentin seems like he’s settled in for the long haul. Well, that's all right, isn’t it? That was the point. Q isn't going anywhere. He smooths Quentin’s hair, pausing to gently disentangle an errant strand from his hoodie zipper. 

Slowly - Eliot was half expecting it, half not - Quentin’s hands begin to move, sliding the silk robe over Eliot's skin. Eliot closes his eyes. Quentin’s lips are on his neck now, hot and soft. A hint of rasp; a hesitant flicker of tongue. The jolt that goes through Eliot in hardly aversion, but Quentin seems to think otherwise: he shies back, hands like startled birds.

“Sorry—“

Eliot clicks his tongue, grasps Quentin firmly with both hands, and pulls him in for a kiss. Quentin pushes back fiercely, open-mouthed, practically climbing into his lap. Eliot is forcefully reminded of the last 

(first?) 

time, how it had been: hot, sloppy, a little frantic. He lets Quentin shuck him out of his robe, thrusts a bare thigh up for him to grind. Deftly unbuttons and unzips where Quentin struggles. He’d forgotten how broad and muscular Quentin is across the torso, surprising on an otherwise slight frame, as is the strength with which he pushes Eliot down. Quentin grips Eliot with more enthusiasm than technique, which doesn't bother Eliot, except now the whole thing is moving at a pace that portends a speedier end than he prefers. Gently, he places his own hand over Quentin’s. Redirects. Guides. Slips the other between Quentin’s legs. 

He works slowly, precisely, watching Quentin’s face the whole time. Quentin’s cheeks are highly flushed under a shadow of lashes. His hair, in the firelight, is a spill of dark gold. His breath comes in hitches and gulps. He arches his neck; Eliot smiles, and slows down even further. Quentin’s eyes fly open, slightly wild. Eliot breathes into Quentin’s ear. 

“Shh,” he says. He brings his other hand off himself to tenderly stroke Quentin’s cheek. Quentin makes a low desperate sound in the back of his throat. Eliot soothes him again, kissing his earlobe. He's riding his own edge now, but it doesn't matter.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m going to take care of you.”

He runs a thumb over Quentin’s trembling mouth, and very softly, kisses him: sweet as a peach.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning in Fillory. Plans are afoot.

They'd come to rest in an untidy sprawl of tangled limbs and crumpled linen, Eliot’s head heavy on Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin holds still and listens to his own slowing breath, and the snap of the fire, and, eventually, Eliot’s soft snores. He drifts in a pleasant half-stupor. Eliot’s curls are damp against his cheek. He breathes in, licks his drying lips. Salt. Musk. Peat. Smoke. A faint tang of wine; the ghost of some lime-and-spice aftershave. 

The warmth of the room and their entwined bodies are beginning to feel oppressive. Quentin digs a feeble elbow into Eliot. “Hey.” 

Silence. He nudges again. “Hey. Eliot. My arm’s asleep.”

“Good night, arm.”

“Dude. Come on.”

With a theatrical sigh, Eliot rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Quentin makes a heroic effort, and almost succeeds in sitting up.

Eliot’s voice is muffled and faintly aggrieved. “What are you doing?”

“Getting up.”

“Why.”

Quentin gives up and slides back down. “Thirsty.”

Eliot is fumbling at the edge of the bed. “Here.” He passes Quentin something cold and metallic. Quentin takes a sip and promptly chokes. 

“Jesus Christ, Eliot.” 

“What? It’s liquid.”

“So’s gasoline. Is this gasoline?”

“Ugh, fine. Give it.” Eliot makes a few brief passes and handed the flask back to Quentin. “The reverse Jesus. Wine into water. Well, Scotch into water.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” 

He drinks deeply, closing his eyes against the cold, and feels revived. Gradually, he becomes aware of sunbirds burbling outside, and the clatter of the castle coming to life around them. Cool white light streams down through the lattice. 

When he turns over, Eliot is looking at him with an expression Quentin can't remember ever having seen on his face before, or possibly anyone’s. Not the full force of it, anyway. Not aimed at him. As though he not only matters, but--to someone--is the most precious thing in the world. 

Quentin feels his own eyes grow wet, but he manages to meet Eliot’s shining gaze and hold it. Quietly, he says: 

“Thank you.” 

There's a sharp rap at the door. 

“Um,” says Quentin. He has an urge to scuttle under the sheet, and promptly berates himself for it. We're all adults here, he reminds himself; he owes neither explanations nor regrets. 

“Housekeeping. Ignore it,” says Eliot. The knocking persists. Eliot makes a small exasperated noise. 

“Your pardon, ex-Majesty—“

“Oh, God,” mutters Eliot. He raises his voice. “Tick? How many times do I need to explain the Earth custom known as ‘do not disturb?’”

“Most abject apologies, your ex-Majesty, but High King Margo requires your presence in the Great Hall immediately.”

Eliot’s eyebrows arch nearly to his hairline. “‘Requires?’” 

“Requests. Immediately.”

“Well,” says Eliot. He sits up, sighs, looks at Quentin. “What High King Bambi wants…” He swings his legs over the side and stands, long pale muscles rippling, then begins to dress. Quentin feels slightly bereft.

“So, um, I meant to say earlier. I did talk to Alice.”

“Distractions happen,” says Eliot. “And?”

Watching Eliot, Quentin reflects that he could practice sleight of hand—and real magic, for that matter—twice as many hours as he’d done, and he’d still never manage to knot a tie like that. 

“Basically, I was right. The Monster isn’t dead, it’s just in Ora’s body now. Which, at last count, we don’t know where that is.” 

“So, unkillable god-monster on the loose. My bad. Anything else?” 

“Nothing really useful,” says Quentin. “I, um. Might have told her I’d ask Margo to let her go.”

Eliot shoots his cuffs. “Any particular reason?”

Quentin thinks that Eliot sounds a shade cooler. He tries to quell the immediate flood of anxiety. 

“I mean, I, I know what you think, and, it’s not that. It’s over. I can’t trust her anymore, either. But…” 

Eliot is slicking mousse into his hair. He squints critically into the dull silver that Fillory uses for mirrors, for whatever reason; they have glass, after all. Quentin sighs.

“…I don’t know. Maybe I’m mostly just…not into the general concept of locking up right now. You know?”

Eliot stops fussing momentarily. He catches Quentin’s reflected eye and offers a small smile. “I get the feeling,” he says.

Quentin feels a little better. He slides out of bed and gropes for his discarded clothes. “So,” he says. “Now what?”

“We’re probably fucked,” Eliot says cheerfully. “So, day ending in 'y.' I suppose we’ll find out more at the meeting. Or not.”

“I mean…” Quentin trails off. Now Eliot's busy at the wardrobe. A pile of Fillorian clothing is at his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Parmigianino’s Minor Dimensional Transcendence,” says Eliot. Rich velvets; watered silks; gold-and-silver embroidered brocade; elaborate stacked heels; all pass rapidly through his hands and seem to vanish. He holds up a small enamel box and grins. 

“For all your bigger-on-the-inside needs. I can’t believe I never used it for packing before. Obviously I had to tweak it to prevent creases.”

“Oh,” says Quentin. He tries to keep his voice neutral. “You’re going somewhere?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate Fillory’s rustic and completely insane charms,” says Eliot, “but, and particularly now that I’ve been deposed, the magic of indoor plumbing has a certain appeal.” He snaps the box shut with a flourish.

“Right,” says Quentin. “Earth is nice this time of year.”

“Earth is nice. Cities are nice. Paris. Berlin. Marrakesh. Shanghai. I thought I’d do a grand tour, then pick somewhere fashionable to settle down for a while.”

“Oh,” says Quentin again. There doesn’t seem to be much else to say.

Eliot’s voice is studiedly casual. “If you want, you could come with me.”

Quentin looks at Eliot. Eliot looks at Quentin.

“So, travel,” says Quentin. “And…settle down. Together.”

“I mean,” says Eliot. “Why not give it a shot?”

Quentin breaks into a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrivals and departures. Many changes. Margo serves Eliot some grouse.

“Margo,” says Eliot. “You look radiant.”

She does, in fact. Dressed in a confection of gold lace over firebird orange, limned by slim ribbons of pale filtered sunlight, she regally—well, what else?—bestrides her throne. The ruby diadem sparkles on her forehead, and her eyes glitter with malice. She’s clocked him.

“Uh huh,” she says, “and you look like you spent the last fourteen hours getting your cock polished.”

Neither confirm nor deny nor apologize. “Time is an illusion. Fillorian time, doubly so. Where is everyone?”

Margo gestures; he’d missed Penny just behind them, sitting cross-legged on the dais, eyes closed. 

“He’s astral projecting. We’re trying to do some recon. Without getting him killed.”

“Why did we not do that in the first place?”

She ignores this. “Julia’s still sleeping it off. Josh decided the solution is to feed us all nonstop until we die, so grab whatever.”

Eliot walks over to inspect the groaning sideboard. As he fills a golden plate with venison pasties and cold roast grouse, Margo continues:

“Fen is now apparently full-on Team Tinkerbell, so I sent her to go talk to their second in command, Leafblower or whatever the fuck his name is.”

“Ongoing diplomacy with the Fae within our borders. Good idea,” says Eliot.

“Delegate the shit out of said diplomacy, even fucking better idea,” says Margo. “But, yes. We have common enemies. Faeries have their own magic. Now we have ours back. Stronger together.”

“Most sagacious, my king.”

She socks him in the arm. “Don’t patronize me, you dickhead.”

“I’m truly not,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, you might want to hold off,” she says. “I let Alice go.”

Eliot blinks. “Really.”

She extracts a rose-tipped cigarette from her bodice, places it in a chased unicorn-ivory holder, and waits for him to light it.

“Josh’s idea.” She exhales. “He thinks she’s more useful as indentured labor than sitting in an oubliette and eating our food. We did a word as bond with her, so she can’t dick us over again. It could have used more eyes to look over the fine print, but some people were busy with other activities…”

She trails off pointedly. He ignores it, of course. Obvious bait is obvious.

“Right now she’s with Kady, rebuilding all the castle wards. After that, they’re working on a cloaking spell that will cover each of us, indefinitely, at any location. We hope. And some other shit that honestly she really is better at than anyone else, because fuck her.”

“Huh,” says Eliot. “So. Josh came up with that.”

“He can come in handy at times.”

“Mm. I’ll bet he could.”

“Fuck off,” says Margo. “You need a shower.”

“Well, this all sounds very enlightened. What do we do if she slips through a loophole and goes back to the Library?”

She blows a kiss-shaped smoke ring at him. “ _Dracarys_.”

He blows the kiss back at her, and he's rewarded with that rare sweet Bambi smile. He smiles back, lovingly, millimeters from her mouth. They clasp hands.

“So,” Margo says, “I’ve been thinking…”

“Eliot!”

He turns; Fen is clattering straight at them. (Jesus, the least he owes her is to try and get her some new toes. He’ll make a note of it). She flings her arms around him. 

Margo drags impatiently. “Yes, heartwarming family reunion, nice to see you too, how’d it go?”

“It went well,” says Fen. “I think. No new deals until they have a new Queen in place, but that should be soon. ”

“Thank you, Fen,” says Margo. “That also brings us back on topic. Speaking of ‘new Queen,’ we now have a vacancy.” She produces a black velvet case, opening it to reveal her former crown. “What do you say?”

Eliot realizes that Margo is talking to him.

“That’s a sweet thought, Bambi, but a little…on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Oh come on,” she says. “You’re getting precious on me now? It’s not a demotion, you know. You’d be an equal partner. Who cares what that ovine spongiform god wanted? He’s dead. We can change the rules. We can even change the title if it actually bothers you.”

“Honestly,” he says, “I think my royalty days are done. It was a good run, but it’s time for some new blood. And now you have blood that’s native to Fillory, and also has experience on the throne. I mean—all of her, not just her blood, obviously.”

Margo rarely misses a beat. “Fen. How would you like to go from temp to perm?”

“Sorry?”

“High Queen,” Margo enunciates. “Rule at my side, continue to serve as High King in my absence.”

“Oh!” says Fen. “Yes. Of course. Thank you. I’m honored to—continue to— serve. Rule. Help rule.”

Margo sets the crown on Fen’s head. “I hereby crown you Queen Fen, the Conveniently Situated.”

If Fen is affronted, she covers it well. With another reflexive twinge of guilt, Eliot reflects that she’s had a lot of practice.

He notices Julia in the room at the same time that Fen does. Listlessly picking over a bowl of jewel-like fruits, Julia seems to perk up a little when Fen runs over to her. They're far enough away that Eliot can’t hear them clearly, but the way Fen is showing off her new crown strongly reminds Eliot of straight women with their engagement rings.

Margo turns back to Eliot. “So, what do you want to do, then? Lounge around eating bonbons and page boys all day?”

They’ve come to it. “Actually, Bambi…I think I’m going to stay Earthside for a while. Just for a while,” he emphasizes hastily. “Get a pied-a-terre—literally—somewhere civilized. And then…”

He trails off. He becomes aware that Margo’s eloquently silent gaze is not leveled at him, but over his shoulder.

He might be good with cards, Eliot thinks to himself as he watches Quentin pore over the covered dishes while studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone; but he should really never play poker. But then, fuck it: why should he or, for that matter, Eliot, have to? Besides, Margo will always be Margo. Everyone else seems too wrapped up in their own personal dramas to notice, much less give a shit.

“All right,” Eliot says to Margo, “enough with the Kubrick stare already, Jesus.”

She never blinks. “Coldwater!”

To his credit, Quentin only flinches a little, although he does knock a goblet on its side.

“Go get your crown,” says Margo.

“What?” said Quentin.

“Get your crown,” Margo repeats. “You’re fired.”

Quentin’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Fine,” he says. “I don’t know why you even need a second king. You two always do everything anyway.”

“Exactly,” says Margo.

Eliot keeps a straight face. “Not nice, Bambi.”

“Fuck nice,” she says. “I have a kingdom to run. I can’t use ‘nice.’ I need reliable.”

“Ah, Bambi…”

“You.” Margo snaps her fingers under the chin of a drowsy-looking page. “Fetch Hoberman.” 

The page stares blankly. “Ho. Ber. Man. Josh. Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. The kitchen? Go. Now! Jesus fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” she adds as the page finally shambles off. “This shit ends now.”

She wheels in Penny’s direction. “Hey, Miss Cleo, wakey wakey. We’re not paying you by the hour.”

Penny rolls his eyes open and glares at her. “I’ve been back. Just sitting here waiting for you people to get done with all your bullshit. Are you done?”

Josh comes hurrying in just as Quentin returns. Quentin plonks the crown in front of Margo. “Here.”

“Yeah. Wake me up when you are,” says Penny.

“What’s up?” says Josh. “Do we need any refills? I have sea urchin quiche just about ready to come out of the oven…”

“Josh,” says Margo. “I’m promoting you.”

“Oh,” says Josh. “To?”

“King,” Eliot breaks in helpfully. “Not High King, so, Low…King.”

“Low, like the Netherlands!” Josh says brightly. “As opposed to the Neitherlands. …Skip it. Well, that’s flattering. What would it entail?”

“Fill in as temporary High King when neither I or Fen are available. Help with international diplomacy; liaison with the talking animals; oversee staff, including hire and fire—especially fire; keep track of all bunny messaging; coordinate special events; and the occasional foot massage,” says Margo. “And also, cook.”

“So, basically, everything I already do, but with a tiara,” says Josh.

“Basically. There may be extras,” says Margo. “You in?”

Josh spreads his hands. “Sounds good to me.”

“I crown you King Josh, the Actually Useful,” says Margo. Quentin rolls his eyes.

Penny calls, “Do you want to hear this shit or not?”

“Yes,” says Margo. “All right, people, gather round.”

Penny stands. “First of all, I went back to Blackspire. Fountain’s still running. McAllister’s dead.”

“Ding dong,” Julia mutters.

“Her body was torn up, bad. There was no one else around.”

“You didn’t see Ora?” Quentin interrupts.

“What part of ‘there was no one else around’ did I not just say? …Right. Brakebills seems more chaotic than usual. I heard someone say Dean Fogg is ‘on sabbatical.’ Sunderland’s in charge for now. I tried getting into the Library, but they have wards that even block astral projections. They’re in some kind of lockdown. At least, the Neitherlands branch. I did hit a couple of random libraries on Earth, but mostly all I learned was people still crash there all day when there’s no room at Starbucks.”

“And that’s it?” says Margo.

“That’s it,” says Penny. “All I know.”

“What about my boat?” says Margo.

Penny looks at her. “What about it?”

“Her. The Muntjac. We stranded her on the flipside.”

“And?” says Penny. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Eliot leaves them to it. “Hey, Fen. So, I don’t know if you heard. I’m going to go live on Earth for a while.”

“Oh,” says Fen. “Okay.”

“With someone,” clarifies Eliot.

“Okay,” says Fen.

“Okay,” says Eliot. “I just wanted to make sure you’re still good. Because, now your position is much more secure…”

“We already talked about this,” says Fen. “We have a...'marriage of convenience.' This is still convenient for me.”

“I mean, if you ever wanted to marry someone else,” says Eliot.

“Then I will,” says Fen. “Oh. You mean, if I want another husband? Ech.”

“Well,” says Eliot. “Let me know if you change your mind. And. Thank you.”

“What for?” asks Fen.

“For being you.” He kisses her forehead. “I’m glad our relationship works for you. It feels very…French.”

“I don’t know what that means,” says Fen, “but, you’re welcome.”

“Come visit sometime,” says Eliot. “I’ll show you.”

She smiles. Nearby, Penny is just winding up:

“What did I tell you before? Not. Your personal. Uber.” He stomps away.

Margo looks at Eliot and sighs. “Pour one out for the Muntjac.”

Eliot obligingly tips his flask toward the ground. He puts his arms around Margo, who’s uncharacteristically slumped.

“Goddamn it,” she whispers. He presses his lips to the top of her head. She sighs again, looked up at him.

“Are you sure about this?”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, deliberately misunderstanding. “More than fine. I have faith in you. You’ll be a better king than I was. And you have good people helping you. Use them.”

“I mean you, dork,” she says. “No offense, but do you think you’ll find an apartment big enough to hold both of your baggage?”

“I hope so,” says Eliot.

“It might at least be safer if you both stayed in the castle for a while,” she says. “What with Monsters and Librarians and fairy-sucking evil aristocrats after us.”

“No better to be safe than sorry,” says Eliot.

“What the fuck does that mean?” says Margo.

“You know,” says Eliot, “I actually have no idea. I had an aunt who used to say that. We all hated her. We all hated each other, but her especially. I think she was eaten by her own hogs. Anyway. I’m doing this. We’re doing this,” he amends. He looks down at her. “I just want to.”

He holds out his arms. She melts into him. He kisses the top of her head, again and again.

“Asshole,” she says tenderly.

He takes her by the chin. “You are my Bambi. You will always be my Bambi. There will never be another Bambi.” He kisses her. “And I’ll see you. Frequently. I promise.”

“How?” she says. “We don’t have the keys anymore. Tall, Dark and Sullen won’t be helping much; you heard him.”

“Magic is back. We’ll find a way. Besides. ‘There is always a door to Fillory when we really need it,’” he says.

“Oh, fuck you,” she says, but she's smiling. “Go on, then. Get out of here while you can still catch a ride. Ask cow-eyes over there.”

Sure enough, Penny's back to hovering awkwardly near Julia, who seems more interested in conferring with Quentin. They look up as Eliot approaches.

“So,” he says. He makes sure to address Julia. “You want to go back to Earth, right?”

“Uh.” She looks at Quentin. “I suppose so. It’s not like I’m going to be any use over here.” Her voice is bitter.

“It’ll be okay, Jules,” says Quentin. “We’ll figure something out.”

She snorts a little. “Okay. When do you want to go?”

“Well,” says Eliot, looking at Penny. Ignoring him, Penny takes a swig of some vile looking yellow liquor and grimaces. 

Eliot proffers his flask. “Thirsty?” he asks, solicitously. Penny narrows his eyes. Eliot beams at him.

“Fine,” says Penny, “I’m ready to get the fuck out of this place. Hope this is everyone, because I’m not coming back soon.”

“I think we’re good,” says Eliot. He looks at Quentin. 

“I'm ready,” says Quentin. He has a flush of red creeping up his neck and into his face. Eliot represses the urge to stroke a pink cheek. For now.

Penny tentatively puts a hand on Julia’s shoulder; she takes Quentin’s arm. Eliot jauntily takes Penny’s other arm. He clicks his heels together three times.

“There’s no place like Brooklyn,” he says. Penny looks at him sourly. He beams again. At Penny, at Fen, at Margo, at Josh, at Abigail the sloth hanging quietly from her perch.

He takes Quentin’s other hand, quietly lacing his fingers through his own.

He's going home.


	7. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, not very far away...

“This is not a tenable solution, Everett,” says Fogg.

The body that was once inhabited by a woman named Ora silently cruises past the window of its tiny, cylindrical cell, once again. A great white shark in a goldfish bowl. 

Rowe offers a wintry little smile. “The Council believes otherwise—“

“Obviously,” says Fogg.

“—and I see no reason to disagree at this time.”

“You are the Council, Everett,” says Fogg.

“Not at all,” Rowe says blandly. “The decision, as are all of the Council’s, is a joint one. The wealth of knowledge to be reaped from studying the creature up close is invaluable.”

Fogg taps the stone wall. “You understand that the living rock is not sufficient containment in itself? There’s a reason it had a guardian, and an entire castle in which to roam freely.”

“We’ve found that sedative drugs work well enough on the human body to keep it relatively docile. We have a rotating staff to provide entertainment and emotional nourishment, as needed.” 

“It’s not enough.”

“The Library,” says Rowe, “as you may be aware, has certain resources at its disposal, should we feel in need of further… education. I thank you, Henry, for your invaluable services.” 

“Which now come to an end,” says Fogg. “Our contract is void. I shall no longer be assisting the Library in its…research. Or on any other project.”

“A shame,” says Rowe. 

“Shame,” says Fogg. “Yes.” He pulls on his gloves. “I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.”

Rowe’s thin smile never wavers. “And you, yours.”

A sharp bang shakes the nearest shelves; the lights flicker momentarily. High childlike laughter floats out from the cell; its face, then, suddenly mashed against the window. One of the Junior Librarians stifles a shriek. More laughter.

Fogg gropes in himself for a shred of pity, and finds only fear. 

“One more thing,” he says to Rowe. “Do not refer to me by my first name again, you officious little prick.” 

“Zelda,” says Rowe. Very slowly, the Head Librarian comes forward. The eyes strobe gold as they track her approach.

“Hello,” she says in her sweet tremulous voice. “Do you like stories?”

In her shaking hands, a worn-leather covered book, thick as an encyclopedia: the 1001 Nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along! This has been my first dive back into fic in over a decade. All comments very much appreciated. 
> 
> This series is a WIP. The next work in the series, [Familiarity,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116097/chapters/45424582) is complete as of this update.


End file.
